My Yesterdays
by Juulna
Summary: [Written for CAPRBB-Soulmate/Reincarnation AU. Stucky established, future Steve/Nat/Sam/Bucky] The story of four saints reincarnated through a mixture of God's will and Odin's interference, reborn into Steve, Nat, Sam, and Bucky's bodies, but with no knowledge of their former soul's lives. The story follows canon for the most part, up to partway through TWS, and then diverges.


**Author's Note:** Hello! This was written as a part of this year's Captain America Reverse (Big) Bang. It's a challenge where artists submit a draft or finished piece and detail what sort of fic they're open to being written about their art. Then writers do a sort of bidding process to be paired with an artist, and then we have about two months to write a piece of at least 5,000 words. This fic is my submission, originally posted on AO3 under the same username. I can't really embed or link to the art here, but the artist is Ellie-Nors and I highly recommend you take a look at the beautiful pieces of art (four portraits and one banner) that are embedded in this fic on AO3. Honestly, their oil-on-canvas art is _stunning_.

The four portraits are of the main characters, portraying the MCU characters and their symbols/likeness to the four saints they share remarkable parallels to: Saints Stephen the First Martyr, Natalia of Nicodemia, Samuel the Confessor, and James Intercisus.

This fic is not an attempt to convert anyone-in fact, it includes references/allusions to multiple religions being real, much the same as the Marvel Universes include Norse mythology and deities, for example. And Jack Kirby as God, apparently? hah! Nerdy, but awesome.

Stucky is the mostly-established ship near the start of this fic but the end goal of the fic is Barbershop Quartet (Steve/Nat/Sam/Bucky). Most of the other Avengers make an appearance, too, of course! Because it was super silly that these idiots didn't call in reinforcement during CA:TWS.

I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading. :)

* * *

**"My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder."**  
**— _William Golding_**

Death was not the end.

No, but nor was it the beginning.

Rather, death was a transition, as many of the greatest scholars and laymen alike had posited, both skeptics and theologians, throughout the ages, since human—and other, _many_ other—lifeforms had begun to think.

There were many transitions, however. Many sorts of life after death, as the saying went. It was a truth, but it was too simple to encompass _the_ truth. Whether it be what was called heaven, or Hel, or Valhalla, or the great dark nothingness that some found comfort in… all of it existed.

It was something the being once known as God, Yahweh, Allah, now known also as the Trinity, thought on often. The souls in his care, those that came to him because they wanted to, because they _believed_, meant much to him. They were his people, the ones who chose to follow The Way, who chose to die believing in the place they called heaven.

A slight misspelling, God—he had no other name to call himself that seemed to fit anymore, his original lost forever to time—thought with some amusement.

No, it was _Heven_.

One of the Ten Realms which created all. The Ten Realms which all other realms and empires and planets and stars and _life_ was derived from. The Ten Realms which had created all that came after them, then sat back and watched as life _bloomed_, blossomed, succumbed to death and war and _hate_ and then was reborn all over again in new and old forms alike.

Yet Heven was special. Heven and Midgard. They had been connected from the beginning by the two brothers who had created them. God, the Creator and Lord of Heven, and his brother Lucifer, the Creator and Lord of Midgard. Two sides of one coin. Connected.

All Ten Realms were linked—_had_ been linked—but none so closely as these two, for they had been brothers straight out of the roots of Yggdrasil's creation, born in the same breath.

And then his brother had _strayed_.

After the Great Battle, which had dragged the other Realms into the conflict, his brother had been cast into the Realm of Hel and God had taken on the mantle of Midgard's rule.

But then, oh _then_, his Angels, his beautiful, _fierce_ race of protectors, warriors, and creators, had called the wrath of Odin, the First Son of Yggdrasil, upon them.

They had crossed a line that should never be crossed in war, no matter the confusion that followed Lucifer's banishment, when the Realms no longer knew who they were fighting and why, because they had been fighting for _far too long_. War had that effect on many.

No, there was no excuse. They had gone too far.

His Angels had killed Aldrif Odinsdottir, the child heir to the Realm of Asgard, and Odin and Frigga's _wrath_ had swelled up and cut Heven off from Yggdrasil. Cut Heven off from the now remaining Nine Realms, and had severed God's ties to Midgard to the barest possible amount that it could.

For God was forever connected to Midgard, in a way that nothing could sever fully, but his powers were diminished, and he could no longer walk among them, no longer affect things as he had before.

So life would have to move on without him.

Or so he thought.

God had searched and searched the knowledge that remained to Heven, and had happened upon the residual texts from when they had once studied the Soul Stone. And so God, in a desperate attempt to re-establish contact with the peoples of Midgard, had split his soul into three, sending two thirds of himself down to the world below to act in his stead, though even then the powers of his soul were limited.

But it had opened the door to something _more_. Something that seemed to be from Yggdrasil itself. Something that even God could not explain in its entirety. Something that God dared not use except in the rarest of circumstances, even once he came as close to mastering it as he could.

Something that eventually became a _gift_, to be granted seldomly to those whom God deemed worthy of the chance at a second life. A life beyond the life after death. A new birth for the souls who had pleased him, whose time on Midgard had come to an end in a way that not even he could allow to stand as the final tally.

These souls, these people who had been born on Midgard, were _his_. They may have found their way to him in Heven, they may have crossed that thin root of Yggdrasil which still linked Midgard to Heven because of their devotion to God, but they did not belong there. Not _yet_. They deserved the chance to live the lives that had been taken from them too soon, in defense of His Name.

And so it was that the martyred souls of his greatest creations, his greatest _friends_, were wrapped in his love, wrapped in his power, and sent back down to Midgard—two, three, maybe four every few decades.

It was a second chance at life, a fresh start, free from the pain of their former lives, their former identities. They were the same soul, but a new body, freed from the knowledge of their painful former existence on Midgard, freed from the knowledge of who they had been.

Freed from everything, able to choose of their own free will the path that their life would take.

And possibly… bring them back to God once again, after a long and fulfilling life. One they deserved.

But, of course, Odin had other plans in mind.

Odin saw what God was doing, and chose not to stop it—for the power of Yggdrasil was too great, even for him—but instead he chose to… change it.

To mark the souls that were being born once more on Midgard.

A bit of mischief if you will, tempered by the love and mercy of his wife Frigga for these souls who were only pawns.

For Odin was no longer as angry at God himself as he once was—but he could never allow this little act of rebellion to go unnoticed, unchanged, unremarked. He would always have his eye on the agents of God, his favored people, no matter that they did not remember who or what they had been. What they _still_ were, deep down in their hearts and souls.

He would never forgive the loss of his daughter. _Could_ never.

And so he _marked_ the souls, influenced them just a little bit, each and every one of them. A small rune, marked on their skin, but pale enough to be mistaken for a birthmark. It was not for them, the mark—it was for God.

Just enough so that God would know what Odin had done.

And God knew. And God allowed. And God still loved enough to send them to be marked by Odin, so that they may have a life of _joy_ and _love_ and _family_ which had been ripped from them before their proper time—all for the love of their God.

It was the least he could do.

It was _love_.

* * *

There were many who had come before, many of God's people who had been reborn with no knowledge of their former lives, Odin and Frigga's mark upon them. There were many, but few of them mattered to the story which God was watching unfold before his very eyes.

These four souls were intersecting in a way which God had not, nor Odin and Frigga—for watch they always did—ever seen before.

And so God sat back, God watched, God grieved, and yet God could act no more.

Their souls were now out of his care, and cast out into the world.

A cruel world which he feared they would not survive, seemingly destined to bestow these souls with the same circumstances of their former lives. The lives which they had lived in honor of him, and had been killed for.

Once again, God had the feeling that he was about to fail.

And yet, he could not rip his eyes away as the years blurred together.

Death was not the end.

No, nor was it the beginning.

But this was _a_ beginning, _a _life after death, and God would watch until _an_ end had come, no matter what sort of end it may be.

He could do no more. No less.

He watched.

* * *

The first to be reborn from the roots of Yggdrasil was James Intercisus—a name granted to him after death had seen him cut apart, piece by piece, in one of the cruelest acts of an age that had made murder into a horrific art form. Yet James Intercisus' soul had been the _true_ art, and art again it would be, whatever form it took.

James was born wailing straight from the womb, a fighter. It was fitting, as his father was a man named George who boxed in his spare time, and his mother was a woman named Winnifred who had fought tooth and nail to make a life for them as Jews in a community of Catholics. She was fierce and protective, as was her husband, and the four children they had would learn how to fight their way through the struggles that life threw into their paths.

But the eldest of these four, the first, was James Intercisus, reborn as James Buchanan Barnes.

And he? He was the strongest of them all.

It would not be long before that was put to the test.

* * *

The second to be reborn was God's beloved Stephen. Called the First Martyr by the church, God only hoped that the world had more to offer the boy, the man he would become, this second time he walked through life.

Although the boy was born sick and premature, the father's death causing the mother's womb to lose grip on the child, Steven was also a fighter. The son of a soldier named Joseph who gave his life for others, the son of a nurse named Sarah who lived her life in the pursuit of saving still more lives, Steven Grant Rogers was a son of heroes. And with that first, wailing squall… with every breath he drew which the doctors and nurses said would be his last but was decidedly _not_… with every day he lived through pain and disability, he still _lived_.

Not only that. No, never _only_ where Steven was concerned—as God and many others would learn.

Steven not only lived—he fought and survived and _thrived_.

He always had, and he always would, right up until the very last breath.

* * *

The third reborn was the kind and caring Samuel. Always patient in the face of cruelty and torment, perhaps this time he would have the chance to learn a different sort of patience. The Confessor—so he'd been called—was reborn into a time of opportunity and freedom, where hatred based on race was still present and nowhere near as _gone_ as God wished it to be, but was… better. He was reborn as Samuel Thomas Wilson, first son of three to a Harlem minister named Paul and his wife Darlene, both of whom were fighting _hard_ in the tradition of Martin Luther King; fighting for freedom and peace and harmony, and living as examples to those around them.

Samuel was sweet and charming as an infant, luring in the unsuspecting with his smiles and giggles, and bringing light and warmth and happiness into the hearts of all those in his presence.

By the time he was barely walking, the little boy had begun cooing at the pigeons who lined his windows, singing along with the birds in the streets and few trees. God saw, smiled, and looked forward to hearing his voice again one day soon.

But not _too_ soon.

* * *

God's worry turned to anguish within the first year of his cherished Natalia's life. The Nicodemian wife—formerly loved deeply by those around her, and who loved them deeply in turn—had been reborn _un_wanted to a young unwed mother named Galina, who only knew Natalia's father by the name Alian. Natalia Alianovna Romanova had been thrust into the open arms of an orphanage patron named Ivan Petrovitch, and God had breathed a sigh of relief, although he had still worried. Natalia's mother had never once looked back, and God always wondered if things would have been _better_ if she had held onto the small child. At first, all had seemed well enough, Ivan more of a father to the little Natalia than anyone had ever been—and _would_ ever be—but the shadows had crept closer and closer to the orphanage, and soon they were staring into the cradles of the nursery and the beds of the young girl's ward, looking for new prospects.

After one look at the fair skin, brilliant red hair, and divine features of the little Natalia, she was whisked away, along with four other girls so young they would not be able to remember anything that had come before.

The next day, the orphanage was naught but an acre of charred rubble, and all recorded traces of the children were wiped from the face of the Earth—along with the lives of nearly a hundred other girls under the age of sixteen, and every single one of their caretakers.

But they had not been taken from God's eye. None of them, but especially not those five little girls; and no matter how much he wished to look away from the horror he knew awaited them, awaited his beautiful Natalia… he could not.

He couldn't look away from _any_ of his people's lives as, one after the other, starting with his indomitable James and _fierce_ Steven, their lives fell apart.

* * *

There were the good moments, of course there were.

God smiled the very same moment in which James first set eyes on Steven. There was something palpable between them, something God had never seen before. Something special, and he wasn't entirely sure it could all be attributed to the mark Odin had laid upon them—there was no precedent for two of the marked meeting each other; it had never occurred before. As it were, he watched with curiosity and joy as James caught sight of the blurred lines on Steven's wrist and exclaimed that they were _meant to be friends_, because he had a birthmark just like his.

They compared the blurred lines—slightly different, but only God, Odin, and Frigga knew the true meaning behind them; _strength of will_ for James, _victory and honor_ for Steven.

They grinned at each other, feeling something _shift_ as skin brushed skin. Feeling something _settle_ and slot into place.

It was as though their souls had not been complete before, as though they entwined and became one. It surprised even him, who had seen all that had come before, and all that would come after.

It could have just been the two of them, simple as that, falling in love. Love, which was the most powerful force in the world, over any mark.

Perhaps it was not. Perhaps it was something _more_.

No matter what it was, however, they blossomed in each other's presence. With each new word shared between the two, each minute, hour, day that passed, they fell further and further in love.

It was beautiful.

It was all he had ever wanted for these souls, to find happiness.

The two of them fought through the tough times, always having each other's back. Getting through George Barnes' abandonment of his family, the Depression and poverty, and Sarah Rogers' illness and subsequent death—always with love. Always being there for the other.

Between the struggles there were the simple joys. The comfort of human contact; books shared by candlelight and the pale light of dusk and dawn; dreams of the future and how they would change the world if they could… _when_ they could. Every hurdle they overcame was celebrated as best they could, especially each time Steve came through the other side of an illness they worried would kill him. And _especially_ when Steve's cartoons made it into the paper and James—'_Bucky'_, Steve and the Barneses called him fondly—locked down the supervisory position at the docks, all on the same day.

Life was good. Good _enough_.

Until it wasn't.

The shadow of war fell across the world, spreading its fingers into every country in the world, whether they wished it or not. Spreading into the hearts and minds of each and every man, woman, and child.

James was ripped from Steve's grasp and, soon after, Steve thrust himself into danger so that he could make a difference—his body changed, but his mind remained the same, still as fierce as ever—and so that he could find again the man who made his soul sing.

They found each other again, and it was _glorious_, a sight to behold, then they blazed a trail through those which the world considered their enemies, the ones who had hurt Steve's _Bucky_, and who were hurting God's children—all of them. The ones whom God would not aid—but nor could God aid the others in the world, nor could he hinder the evil. They were _all_ his children, no matter what, and the suffering and death caused by war in all the eras of the world tore at God's heart. For he loved them.

It was only after death that they would be judged—only then could God's power touch them.

And yet, it was as if James and Steven had heard God's plea, for the two of them stood side by side, men and women at their backs, following their lead… and made a difference.

For one, blood-soaked and tear-stained year, the two of them did just that.

And then James fell into the cold, dark canyon when he was watching his partner's back.

And Steven saved millions by crashing his enemy's plane into the cruel, icy depths of the ocean.

God watched, and God wept. He had tried to give them a second chance, a chance to have a better life than their previous one.

But it was all the same again.

James Intercisus had been cut apart, killed slowly for his faith, his love. James Buchanan Barnes was barely alive when the Russian techs began to pull him apart, to rework him from the inside out, bit by bit, to make him the perfect weapon to combat the very country, the very people he loved.

Stephen the First Martyr had brought love and light and life to the early church, to God's people. He had impacted thousands. Steven Grant Rogers was a martyr in his own right, the first of a new breed of heroes, who had given—_thought_ he had given—his life to save the world from both death and a fate worse than death for those who survived. They lived and laughed and remembered him solemnly, their hero… all while nightmares haunted him beneath the ice.

They were not dead, but God was not sure if their fate was better than what death would have granted them.

And yet, still, he could do nothing. Nothing but watch, and wait, and witness.

Witness he did, as the jagged edges of Steven and James' souls reached towards each other, spanning half the world in a single second. Intertwined, they pulsed strongly at first, comforting in a way, and then slowly settled into a soft, constant presence. There for each other, even in near-death.

In that moment, God was grateful for Odin's interference. For this was nothing he had done, nothing he had ever created.

But… there was something missing. Some jagged edges of their souls which hadn't connected, hadn't smoothed over, didn't seem like they belonged to either one of them.

* * *

In hopes of something that would soothe his heart, God turned his eyes to Samuel, shielding his eyes from the bone-deep cold that was a part of Steven and James' lives—_deaths_—now, knowing that they were lost to him.

The little boy marked with a rune meaning _trust, faith, companionship_. As the years passed, God saw how apt the rune was, for all that it could not predict the future chosen by free will.

Of the four, Samuel had the happiest childhood, and it offered God comfort, along with the happiness he brought to _others_, not just for himself.

Especially when the boy sang.

His mother had sung to her 'darling little Sam' in the crib from the moment he was placed there at her side in the hospital, and she continued every night, well into his early childhood. The first time he sang back was to the birds on his home's window sill, laughing and giggling as a toddler at the rather strange but beautiful sounds of the pigeons, doves, starlings, and robins.

Soon, he was putting his newfound knowledge of language to use, mixing it in beautiful ways with song, much to the delight of his family—especially his mother. For his mother loved all things musical. And though she was the wife of a minister, and devoted much of her musical praise to God, she made sure that her little boy—and her daughters, a few years later—knew the songs of the world around him. For there was much joy in all song, she said. And there was much joy to be found in _everything_, she said, inside and outside of the Church.

She, and his father to many other's surprise, encouraged him to chase what he wished in life, so long as he respected those around him and stuck on the correct side of law and justice.

Sometimes that was hard, when he saw the _in_justice of the world around him, whether it be civilian or the law which was committing said injustices. So he watched, and he interceded where he could, argued where he couldn't, and tried to understand the thoughts and feelings of the people around him at all given times.

He had a passion for people. A passion for cultures and societies and all sorts of different types of people, those he had met and those he hadn't, hopefully, yet. He wished to learn all about the people of the world, and he wished to learn what made them _tick_.

His mother and father, remarkably, saw it before he had fully realized his interest. They came to him one day in his early teens, offering him books and—most important of all—their love and support. The books, on different cultures and religions of the country and the world at large, both surprised him and not, to receive from his parents. They were God's voice, God's people, God's champion… how could they be so open?

God smiled, pleased.

Sam learned an important lesson that day. Though he had already known that his parents were open and loving and welcoming of all, he learned that day to let go of the last of his preconceptions.

Sam smiled, and his parents smiled, and he loved them _so much_.

From that day on, Sam devoted his time to understanding others even further, and even tried his hand at helping those desperate for attention, desperate for _aid_ and _love_ and _compassion_.

He gave, and he gave, and he _gave_, never once taking for himself.

Soon, he was putting himself through school as a paramedic, where he met his best friend, Riley, who became the _world _to him—and more. They were inseparable, and such was the reason he followed his friend, years later, into the air force—he wanted to protect Riley, with every last fiber of his being.

It was across the ocean that Sam lost Riley, and God wept for the sorrow which called to him with every breath which Sam heaved in loss for his helpmeet.

Something broke in Sam that day, something which left his soul jagged and barren. Something which called to another broken soul somewhere across Europe, to a soul which God knew _very_ well.

Yet they were not to find each other, not yet it seemed.

Sam returned to his home, returned to his family, but only for a little while. He took some time to heal, and then all he wanted was space. So he moved away, taking the opportunity to work hand in hand with others suffering like him.

Even as he helped heal others, they helped heal him. But the wound would not close fully, and Sam continued to seclude himself from making another _true_ friend. Not one like Riley. And perhaps not ever again, he thought.

Maybe.

God could only watch, and wait, as it seemed he always did.

Not for the first time did he curse his very existence.

* * *

Natalia's youth lasted only a handful of years.

By age three, she knew not to call attention to her mark—_protecting that which one loves_, it meant, and it gave God _hope_—for fear of standing out.

By the time she was four, she knew how to sit quietly, sit still, for hours at a time. To observe everything around her and report back as much as she could, as perfectly as she could. To infer, to correlate, to deduce.

By age five, she could fire handguns near-perfectly. A few months after that, she could dismantle and reassemble and recognize more than a dozen of them.

Then there were rifles, knives, hand to hand combat, and gymnastics; lessons in espionage, language, business, weapons repair, and the ins and outs of black markets around the world; tactics in how to subdue and conquer and maim and _kill_ and God _grieved_—oh how he _grieved_ for what was becoming of his precious child.

Yet he could not interfere.

Alongside all of the violence, however, she was taught to _dance_. As soon as she could walk, her dance instruction began, and she took to it like a fish to the sea, a bird to the skies between tall peaks, a deer to the forest, a wolf to the tundra… she loved to dance, and she relished in every single moment she was allowed to, whether she was being officially trained or if it was during one of the rare moments where Mother let them choose which skill they would refine. Each of them was special, and each of them had a specialty, and Natalia was pleased that her specialty coincided with her passion. _To dance_.

God would spend many a passage of time watching his little Natalia dance; watching her dance as she grew bigger, mature beyond her years in ways that made God's heart _ache_, but at least he could take solace in the purity of Natalia's love for the art of movement and grace.

And one sunny winter afternoon, when Natalia reached the age of eight, the Red Room girls met Big Brother for the first time. The man also known as the Winter Soldier; a ghost of the ages.

God took notice.

For how had he missed _this_? How had he missed his child still being alive after all these years?

He knew the answer: for God had looked away upon what he had _thought_ to be his child's death—James had been blue, no pulse, no heartbeat, no breathing, how could he be _alive_—because he could not handle the pain.

He had left his child alone—even though he knew he could not have done _anything_ different, much as he couldn't interfere with his beautiful Natalia's descent into darkness—to face the horror and brutality and awfulness and _pain_. He had left his James alone through that, and he had not been able to bear witness to the loss of everything James was.

Except…

There was a little spark of _something_ late into the second day of the older girls' training, when James, the _Winter Soldier_, finally came face to face with the little Natalia.

God wasn't sure how many times James had been here, but he had so obviously been blind to it. For James treated these sessions as if he was used to every last thing about it, teaching the older girls how to take down targets more than double their size with a practiced ease, a gruff word there, a curt but not… not _brutal_ way of disciplining them and teaching them their errors so that they would not make the same mistake again.

And yet James _hesitated_ the first time that the little Natalia got her hands on him, trying to take down the larger man with a degree of skill and determination that even then was catching the eyes of Mother and her trainers alike. And it was that hesitation that nearly made it possible for Natalia to succeed upon her very first attempt… if it hadn't been for her own brief hitch of movement, her own quickly indrawn breath, her own widening eyes.

But they had been taught to suppress anything except what was taught to them, anything that wasn't ingrained in their very being, and so God watched with sadness as the both of them swept aside that brief sensation, that brief allure, of _freedom_. They swept it aside and did as they were taught and trained, did as they were told.

They knew something was there, something… odd. Though they eyed the other with a certain level of scrutiny in the few years afterwards that James was involved with Natalia's training, they never once acted upon it. Never once questioned a thing.

But it was _there_, and they knew it. Even if they did not know what it was.

And then one year, James did not return.

Natalia was thirteen, and only months away from her graduation, when she noticed that the week Big Brother would arrive on had come and passed without comment. She did not mention it, but she wondered. And then, the morning of her graduation ceremony, she felt as if some part of her had been severed. Some part of her _lost_. It was different than anything she'd ever felt before, and she _knew_ that it was nothing to do with the future. It was something else, something different, but she didn't know _what_.

And then her graduation and the years afterwards took her complete attention.

She seduced, she killed, she spied, she fought, and she _danced_.

And if, every once in a while, she would feel something deep in her soul connecting and disconnecting again… well, that was not for her handlers to know.

They owned enough of her by then, they did not need to own the deepest part of who she was.

And then she was free, taken into the arms of her country's greatest enemy after an arms deal gone wrong—though not without suspicion on either side—and shown compassion and care and friendship by one of the unlikeliest men she could have imagined. A man who had been sent to kill her, and yet had spared her in a moment of mercy.

Because Clint Barton had seen in her, over a decade after the Red Room, what he saw in himself: a deep wish to change the world around her, to fix the mistakes she had made and the wrongs she had caused.

God saw it too, and he _knew_ that there was hope again for Natalia—now known as Natasha.

* * *

As Steven was fetched from the frozen depths of his grave, God watched, breathless as he realized that these four souls were hurtling towards each other. Two had met one other, another had met two. The fourth, an outlier… Samuel's path would place him near to at least one of them, and the possibility of them meeting—free will or no—was higher than it had ever been for any of his other reborn people.

When Steven gasped awake, God gasped with him.

* * *

The world had become something better and worse in turns. Larger, _and_ smaller. Louder, and quieter. More understandable, and less. Kinder, and ruder. It was everything and nothing, and Steve barely had the chance to get his legs beneath him before he was being called to serve, protect, and aid this new and undiscovered world.

At least this was something familiar, something that—not really that oddly—set him at ease, allowing the bright and distracting lights of the future to dull in comparison. Saving the world, being surrounded by a military operation, having a mission… he could do that.

It was as if he had been born—_re_born—just for this.

* * *

"Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers."

There was _something_ about her. _Something_ about him.

"Ma'am?"

And they both knew it.

"Hi."

They had felt it before, though they did not know it had been with the same person.

"They need you on the bridge," Natasha said to Agent Coulson. "Face time."

First and foremost, however, they were professionals. They could track down that curious feeling later, when the world wasn't at stake.

"There was quite the buzz around here, finding you in the ice. I thought Coulson was going to swoon. Did he ask you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?"

Steve smiled, a little embarrassed, and Natasha quirked her lips back.

Didn't mean they couldn't make friends while they waited.

"Trading cards?"

"They're vintage, he's very proud."

Steve was about to reply when he recognized another man from his briefing packet. Someone who he was just the littlest bit unsure about, though mostly because he couldn't quite wrap his mind around what had happened to him, why it had happened, and what exactly the result was. But he was a teammate, before anything.

"Dr. Banner." Steve gave him a small but welcoming smile.

No sense getting off on the wrong foot.

* * *

Meeting the rest of the Avengers was a whirlwind.

And a bit of a shock, in all honesty.

Steve had met grandiose villains before—though this Loki was, truly, a whole other level.

It was the grandiose _heroes_ who were a bit harder to handle.

A little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Bucky, that damned _jerk_, teased that it only meant _Steve_ had been the most grandiose hero he'd ever met before, and that it made Steve unsure what to do with even bigger divas.

Still, though, he didn't quite know what to do with Thor—an alien _god,_ whose very existence raised questions about his faith that Steve _really_ did not want to consider right then, and so did not, but who was also competent and caring and wise beneath the air of high society and _agelessness_. His… _brother…_ also made his head ache, but for _entirely_ different reasons. At least, in Thor, there was kindness and goodwill and no inclination towards the domination of an _entire world_.

So, _no_, Steve had _no idea_ what to do about Thor, but even his bafflement in the face of meeting an actual alien god—_two!_—paled in comparison to the way meeting Antonia Stark—Howard's only child, Peggy's only goddaughter and an absolute _mess _of contradictions packed in a small body—had made him feel. He'd felt entirely poleaxed by her sudden appearance in Stuttgart, and the way she hid her skill, capability, and self-sacrifice behind a façade of bluster and poise and complete and utter mania.

Dr. Banner, _Bruce_, for all he couldn't quite comprehend him either, was infinitely easier to deal with than those two, not in the least because the man seemed to have some sense of boundaries, at least. And he was heroic, despite how the world saw and treated him. It was admirable in the extreme, and Steve wasn't entirely sure he'd act the same in his shoes.

Clint Barton, the agent who had been one-two punched by Loki and was still reeling from the after-effects—and what he had done while under his influence—was quiet, but did his job… even if, at times, he seemed just as reckless as Steve was, _without_ the aid of a serum-enhanced body. It was, he supposed, what was needed in the moment, but Steve wondered what lay beneath the mask and the stubborn determination to ignore what had happened to him.

Natasha was really the only one he understood. It was as if he knew her at a cellular level already, though they had barely scratched the surface while speaking. She was extremely competent, did her job well, and had a perfect blend of obeying orders and thinking for herself. She hid her empathy well, not wanting others to use it against her, he was sure, but then went out of her way to protect those she so obviously cared about. She reminded him of Peggy but… also not. She was more and less in turns.

The Avengers, they… confused and delighted and infuriated him in turns.

But, well, he would have plenty of time to think—he hoped—and to get to know his new team, after they worked together to save the world.

And save it they did.

* * *

In the process and in the aftermath, somehow, they became friends—all of them.

It was the only thing, at times, which tethered them to humanity. Each of them had their demons, but within one another they found something they had been missing. Something which they had lost, though it could not replace _everything_ which had been lost. Not by a long shot.

But they became more than just a team, more than just _The Avengers_. More than just a group who was there to protect the world.

It was what they needed, even if the lot of them were slow to admit it, slow to allow the others into their hearts and minds and lives.

Soon enough, though, they were working and training, then living and laughing together.

Steve was the first, not truly wanting to go back to an empty, S.H.I.E.L.D.-funded—and likely monitored—apartment, to be alone with his ghosts. The whispers of the dead were hard to ignore, and so he filled the void with laughter and companionship and a bull-headed determination to move forward and honor those who had died. To live _for_ them, as much as he wanted, sometimes, to slip back beneath the icy waves and never wake again.

But they were all there for him, and Natasha especially, hiding her care and concern beneath a poised aloofness… at least at first. She and Steve soon slipped into a dry, witty banter, teasing each other back and forth. Steve's sarcasm skills grew exponentially through exposure to her, and he smiled at the thought of Bucky being shocked that his sarcasm could actually _go_ any higher than it already had. When he was ready to talk about the hole in his heart the shape of his best friend and lover, Natasha was the first one he confided in. Her steady presence gave him strength, and he started to _heal_.

Clint—and Natasha—was the first to introduce his family to the rest of them. Natasha had no one else, yet had been claimed years ago by the Bartons, and it was beautiful to see the way she unwound around them. Clint was at peace with them, and was grateful to Toni for housing his family in a safe and secure manner so that he didn't have to give up his time with either the Avengers _or_ his family. He could have both, for the first time in a long time, and be reassured that his family was as safe as they could be.

Toni fumbled her way through introducing her partners, saved only by the grace and skill—and bemusement—of her girlfriend, Pepper Potts, and the laughter and amiability of their boyfriend, Colonel James Rhodes. Rhodes—War Machine—and the equally indomitable CEO of Stark Industries, would both prove to be great assets to them all. For now, though, Toni was simply glad that she could be near them and still be a full member of the Avengers—while also somehow juggling research and development for her own company. Slowly she and Steve unwound around each other, and their trust in the other multiplied to the great benefit of the team as a whole.

Bruce moved into the tower with nothing but a duffel bag and a frown, but was soon swept away by the combined, seemingly magical, attention of Toni Stark and Thor's Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis, who had moved in just days prior and were still settling in. The three scientists and one happy and endearing assistant got along like a house on fire—along with _literal_ fire that had required four extinguishers and a whole hour of overhead sprinklers to tame—and the rest of the Avengers and extended family watched with amusement, and sometimes alarm, as they all clicked together. Bruce smiled more easily with every day that passed.

Thor was the happiest that anyone had seen him, though there was an edge of worry for his brother, and he was always quieter immediately after a visit back to Asgard with the diplomats representing the United Nations conducting negotiations with Odin. But progress was indeed being made, and it seemed to settle Thor more and more as time went on. Clint and Steve managed to get Thor out of his shell the most out of them all, and the three of them could often be heard squabbling late into the night. But Jane was the balm to soothe his soul, and he doted on her. They were an unlikely pair, but well-suited for all their differences.

They lived together and they _lived_. They laughed. They played. They worked. They trained. They protected. They fought. They made up.

From New York to Miami to Greenwich, from Loki to the Mandarin to the Svartálfar, on Earth and on Asgard, they had each other's backs.

They were the Avengers.

* * *

Steve had known that this day would be important, from the moment he'd seen Sam running ahead of him in the dark of the Washington, D.C. morning. He just hadn't known it would be _this_ important. He'd thought it would be the start of something great, something new, something that he could hold onto with both hands and move forward with, finally, into the future. Letting go of his past. But no. No, instead Fury had to ruin everything.

And then Fury had _died_, and it had gone to hell even further, tied up in a pretty little handbasket.

Really, Fury dying on any day would ruin everything and anything. His secrets had secrets, and losing him threw S.H.I.E.L.D. into chaos—chaos they tried to hide, tried to pretend wasn't occurring, but one could see it even if one had the merest inclination to look.

The man had kicked everything off with a compartmentalized mission, shoving a wedge between Steve and Natasha, his best friend now… perhaps more, someday… and had compounded it even further by showing him the hugest disaster waiting for a place to happen: Project Insight. But Steve held his tongue, kept his mouth shut—somewhat—hoping to gather a little bit more intel before he tackled all the problems he could see… and then Fury had the _nerve_ to get himself killed, leaving tattered threads of evident betrayal and confusion and _conspiracy_ in Steve and Natasha's hands.

Because Natasha was one of the few people he could trust—at least, one of the few he could trust who lived in the immediate area.

And that _kiss_—

Hm. Best not think about that. Not then.

But they fell back, found Camp Lehigh and goddamn _Zola_'s creepy computerized brain, found even _more_ conspiracy that shook the foundations of everything Steve knew and yet _still_ somehow managed not to surprise him in the least.

Because Hydra was S.H.I.E.L.D. And S.H.I.E.L.D. was Hydra.

Or near enough as to make no difference.

The next morning, they arrived at Sam Wilson's house, and he let them in with very few questions asked. They regrouped, they rested, and they planned.

Breakfast smelled amazing, and after filling themselves with as much food as they could possibly handle—Sam had gone back to cook extras twice for his super soldier guest and his exhausted companion—they began to plan.

"So, the question is:" Natasha began, "who in S.H.I.E.L.D. could launch a domestic missile strike?"

"Pierce," Steve answered immediately, though tiredly.

Natasha looked as calm as ever when she continued her train of thought. "Who happens to be sitting on top of the most secure building in the world."

That was understating it—the Triskelion was as close to a fortress as Steve had seen outside of Nazi Germany… and okay, that made _way too much sense._

"But he's not working alone," he said instead. "Zola's algorithm was on the Lemurian Star."

"So was Jasper Sitwell," Natasha countered.

There was a pause as they took in what exactly that meant. "So, the real question is: how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer in broad daylight?"

Sam came up to the table, carrying two folders. He dropped one of them onto the table between Natasha and Steve, and said resolutely, "The answer is: you don't."

Natasha grabbed the file and opened it while Steve took the opportunity to look at Sam, searching his features for… something. He wasn't sure what, but he felt _drawn_ to trust the man in front of him, who had taken him in when he barely knew them—and when he likely knew that doing so was only going to bring him trouble.

He still did it.

"What is this?" Steve asked.

"Call it a resume," Sam said, flashing him a brilliant smile.

Steve's heart couldn't help but to skip a beat, and he turned instead to the safer and more familiar sight of Natasha—by his side just like she'd almost always been glued to it these past two years.

"Is this Bakhmala? The Khalid Khandil mission, that was you," Natasha mused distractedly, poring over the contents of the file with practiced ease. "You didn't say he was pararescue," she directed at Steve. "Steve, he'll do just fine. We can use a man like him on our side. Plus," she flashed a practiced grin of her own at Sam, "his background checks out. He's good people, Steve. He can use the wings."

"Wings? What wings?" Steve asked, confused. Honestly, Natasha threw him for a loop sometimes, talking him in circles that even _he_ couldn't keep up with. It was half his problem with her—the other half was the way she drove him crazy… in a good way. A way he kept coming back for.

"The Falcon wings," she said as if he were stupid, smiling at him in the way she did when she knew something he didn't, but still somehow expected him to know.

"I thought you didn't know I was pararescue," Sam accused lightly, taking no offense whatsoever. "And yet somehow you know about the wings and say that my background checks out? No offense lady, but that sorta stuff is going to get old fast."

Steve rolled his eyes. Sam was half right, at least—somehow it never managed to get old… Natasha managed to endear herself and intrigue all while driving one mad.

"Tell me about it," he agreed with Sam. He paused. "No, really. Tell me about it. What are these wings you're talking about?"

Sam put the second folder down onto the table as he sat in his chair once again, and Steve leaned over to flick open the cover. "Falcon? Huh. Okay, so definitely not a pilot."

"We're going to need to act fast," Natasha warned.

Steve nodded, and then focused all of his attention on their next steps. He breathed deep, thought for a moment, composed himself, and then spoke. "Okay. Sam, draw up a diagram of the facility those are kept in and get us some clothes. Water and food in your car. If you know where the GPS and OnStar chip is, if you have one, disable it. Otherwise, get Nat to help you with it. Don't touch your computer or phone—we'll use our Avengers-issue phones and communicators for now, not the S.H.I.E.L.D. ones, so keep close to one of us until we can have someone bring you one.

"Nat, call up Clint. Have him ready us an extraction in the area, ready at the drop of a hat. No one's to know. He goes off-grid completely; trust no one but the Avengers. And Maria, but don't tell him that. Try to get in contact with Bruce, but I don't expect much luck there. Don't leave him a message if you can't.

"I'll try to get Thor to pop by to help, see if Heimdall answers, but you know how he is. And I'll call Toni, too. Get her and Rhodes to work some magic on those Insight engines and then rendezvous with us and Clint just outside D.C. We'll make for one of her safe houses afterwards, but play it by ear as to which one we choose. And I'll see if she and J.A.R.V.I.S. can track Sitwell and Pierce down for me, too."

Steve let out a long breath, briefly fluttering his eyes shut. "We'll make this initial strike on the grounds of gathering intel, and then we'll regroup with said info and work on a more complete solution to scorch Insight and Hydra from this Earth." He opened his eyes and caught Sam's gaze. "They won't know what hit them."

"Why these Insight engines?" Sam asked curiously, obviously piecing together the last details but wanting confirmation.

"Because Hydra has enough power in those ships to kill the world and its people fifty times over, and to rule over the ashes. We can't take them out entirely, not this quickly, but we'll do what we can. We can't just let them kill people."

"You're damn right we can't," Sam agreed.

"I like this one, Rogers," Nat commented dryly, smiling as she pulled out her phone.

Steve couldn't stop the blush that flushed across his cheeks.

Sam could only laugh.

* * *

It was time.

Time for Hydra to rise once more.

The Asset had been waiting for this moment for a long time, though he had no true memory of his beginning. He simply… _was._ Born with Hydra, he would die with Hydra.

But first, his mission. He would die before he let this mission fail—because he was Hydra through and through. They had taken him apart, put him together with even better parts, parts that would not fail him, which _completed_ him, and he had come out a true and marvellous weapon to be used for the glory of Hydra. The ultimate ghost story, the mist which killed, the soldier, a _brother_—

The thought drifted away, dissipating into the stillness of his mind as all such erroneous thoughts did. He must focus, and focus he did, for he had been taught well. _Created_ to be exactly as he was.

Two high-level targets and a traitor awaited him, plus a bystander soldier they had foolishly roped into their treason. He planted his feet, stared down the oncoming vehicle… and then he began the countdown to the rise of Hydra.

"Hail Hydra," the Asset whispered to himself.

* * *

Everything happened so quickly that it nearly startled even Natasha herself. It seemed par for the course where Steve was concerned, however, she thought fondly, even as her eyes alighted on something which truly _did_ startle her. Enough to punch a tiny little gasp from between her lips.

In front of her, staring the three of them down, was a ghost from her past. The Winter Soldier. The Ghost. Hydra's Fist.

_Big Brother_.

Memories flooded her, _overwhelmed_ her, like they had the last time she had laid eyes on him in the Red Room. She felt a little like she was underwater, moving too slow and too sluggishly, because even with her specialised skillset, she knew they were woefully out of their league against him. She moved without thinking, instinctively flinging herself into Steve's lap and dragging his head down, curling in over him as the first shot blew through the headrest where Steve's head had been seconds earlier.

Immediately, memories were flooding through her, just like the last time she'd encountered him after the Red Room. She found herself acting entirely on autopilot; even with her skills, against someone like _him_ they weren't enough in the least. She struggled to pull herself back into the present as hard as she knew she'd be struggling with him in the moments to come.

And then they were being slammed into from behind, and the Winter Soldier timed his jump with preternatural movement that was everything and more that she recalled from their time together. Soon, they had lost control of the car, and Natasha knew that they'd have to bail soon—but to escape the Winter Soldier, when he was so obviously and _literally_ gunning for her, for Steve, perhaps even for the new guy, Sam, well… she'd faced better odds against every single one of her other opponents throughout the decades.

And then the car was sailing into the air as it hit the median barrier, angling for a spin, and now, now, _now_—

Steve grabbed her and Sam, pulled them tight against him, and shoved them out and onto the remains of the car door with the shield.

She felt a _zing_ course through her body—one she very much recognized—but pushed aside the feeling like she had every time she'd felt it from the age of eight onwards.

Sam was the first to lose his grip on Steve, Nat, and the door, and Natasha lost sight of him immediately as they continued to slide speedily along the asphalt, sparks flying around them amidst the pieces of misshapen metal and rubber and plastic.

And then—oh _fuck_—she was being shoved aside so that Steve could take the brunt of a direct hit from a goddamn _rocket-propelled grenade_, and he went flying clean off the edge of the bridge and over, just as fast as Toni could make her suit fly.

It was enough to make her legitimately wonder if serum-enhanced Captain America was okay, something she hadn't even done during the Battle of New York.

She could hear someone lay on their horn, what sounded like a large truck, and then the sounds of glass shattering and metal squealing in a collision, but she didn't have the time to worry about Steve. He could handle his own dumb self, she thought with an adrenaline-spawned grin, as five men joined the Winter Soldier in opening automatic weapon fire on her.

Natasha ran towards Sam and together they ducked behind the robust end of a minivan. She drew a pistol and started firing towards their attackers even though she knew she had the barest chance of hitting them, but trying anyway because they were clumped together like _idiots_, only for the new guy to swing away from her almost immediately and move further back, behind a sedan.

_Attempting to draw fire off me_, Natasha thought. _Or perhaps thinking I have the better survival chance and that I'll draw the fire_. Either way was fine; it was his choice, but she _did_ like the guy.

Natasha vaulted over the median barrier as another RPG came barreling towards her, managing to dodge the blast that took out the minivan just in time. She could practically _feel_ her heels burning.

Without even looking, Natasha knew that she had just seconds before another RPG would be on its way, so she dove headfirst over the edge of the bridge, readying her grappling hook from beneath her sleeve, and then—

_Boom_!

That time it felt like her _hair_ was burning, and she was absolutely going to complain about it to his _face_—whichever asshole whose turn it was on the weapon, though it was probably some goon by this point—once she had him pinned beneath her. Maybe even make the man pay for a day at the spa, when all was said and done.

Jerk.

Her grappling hook carried her smoothly to her feet and she hit the ground running beneath the bridge, heading in a full sprint towards what looked to be where Steve had hit the ground. She ran in a straight line, hoping to keep a target on her back rather than sacrificing civilians for only the slimmest chance in not being shot.

Drawing her second pistol out and checking its safety and both clips by default, Natasha edged herself out from beneath the bridge, and—catching sight of the man in question—started to fire as soon as she had a shot. The window wasn't open for more than a bare few seconds, but she could at least divert his attention long enough for even _one_ more civilian to get clear.

It worked _barely_, but Steve took that moment to jump back into the fight, drawing the fire of all of the goons.

Natasha took the opportunity to disappear into the maze of abandoned vehicles, knowing that the Winter Soldier would be coming after her first. It was part of his modus operandi, dealing with the lesser of the two threats while his cohorts kept the bigger threat occupied from a distance.

Hearing shouts of pain amidst the gunfire, Natasha smiled, wondering how that 'distance' thing was working out for them.

Natasha turned her comm on, taking the chance to _very briefly_ check in with Clint, Toni, and Rhodey. She hadn't had much of an opportunity before, and she chastised herself internally for not having it on already.

She was better than that.

She pulled her phone out at the same time, quickly cycling through to her voice memo app.

"Hawkeye, Iron Man, War Machine, report."

"Oh hey, there you are, spider mama. Was just trying to get a hold of you."

"Was a little busy with a deadly assassin," she replied dryly.

"I changed course as soon as the radio started lighting up with your "little busy". I'm two minutes out," Clint cut in. "I'll land the jet then come and assist."

"Stay near it and keep it running, looks like we'll need a quick exit."

"Copy."

"Helicarrier engines are as scrambled as they can be without ripping them apart," Rhodey announced.

"We were trying that whole 'inconspicuous' thing you keep trying to teach me, but…"

Natasha groaned, though couldn't help the laugh that edged the sound. Because _of course_.

"Hey, that was all you," Rhodey accused. "My fine ass is innocent."

"Chatter!" Steve barked.

"Oh lookie who remembered how technology works," Toni crooned.

Everyone else fell silent, allowing for Steve's long-suffering sigh to be heard loud and clear.

"How far out are you?" Steve asked a moment later, then let out a grunt as the sound of the shield meeting flesh repeatedly underscored it all.

"Hm, give or take five minutes."

"Copy."

"Cap, I'm drawing the Winter Soldier out over here, could use a—"

She shut her mouth, ending her words mid-sentence without ceremony as she caught sight of the Winter Soldier closing in on her. Darting away again, needing silence for the trick, she started a recording of her voice playing—some sentimental message she'd recorded for Steve a few weeks ago, but had never sent—on speakerphone and then set the phone behind a car, against its tire, before silently padding away as quickly as she dared.

Everyone quieted down on the comms, thankfully knowing that when Nat went silent like that it was _serious_.

She waited and watched from behind as the Winter Soldier crept forward on equally silent feet, detached a spherical bomb from his belt, and rolled it towards her phone.

Using the explosion's sound and fire as cover, Natasha didn't even hesitate in launching herself for the Winter Soldier's head.

She braced herself for that little _something _that always occurred every time they touched skin to skin as she wrapped her legs around his shoulders and throat, before bringing her bare hands into contact with his face and neck.

That something which she'd grown used to pushing back.

So _she_ was prepared, but it seemed like he felt it just the same as always, before, and _hadn't_ been prepared for it.

Hadn't _remembered_.

Not the way that Nat remembered, not the way that haunted her dreams.

The Winter Soldier froze.

Natasha's momentum carried her over and down as the Winter Soldier toppled to the side, and she scrambled to her feet and right into a defensive stance.

The Winter Soldier was staring at her, all wide-eyed _humanity,_ in a way he _never_ had before.

Long seconds passed, and Natasha knew she needed to take this opportunity to take him out or at least secure him before he could recover, but that same _something_ stayed her hand.

The Winter Soldier started to tremble, whole body wracking with shudders.

"Hey Itsy Bitsy, I just got here, where do you need me?" Toni's voice sounded clear as a bell over the comm, and into the island of silence that Nat's world had narrowed down to.

She didn't respond, not daring to move a muscle as the Winter Soldier started gathering himself, drawing his _in_humanity back over him, piece by piece, like a shroud.

Natasha just had to make sure it wasn't _her_ shroud—or any innocent's, though they had mostly cleared out of the immediate danger zone by now.

"Widow?" Clint's voice this time. "I've placed the jet and am coming out at your five. Eyes on the target."

_Oh good, the cavalry's here_, was all she had time to think before the Winter Soldier launched himself at her, the monster back in his eyes.

She danced back out of reach, grabbing for her knife as she saw the Winter Soldier's in his hand. For whatever reason, he hadn't gone for the two remaining guns she could see on him, though the edge of animalistic anger could account for that. More emotion in his eyes than there'd ever been before, movements jerky and _raw_ instead of smooth and cool and practiced.

_Too pretty for a bad boy, though Toni would say that's exactly the point,_ she mused.

Natasha dodged a few slashes and jabs, falling back quickly towards Clint.

"Oh hey, who's the hunk with the shiny metal arm?" Toni had obviously caught sight of them now. "Closing in."

"Wait," Natasha got out, just as Steve launched himself at the Winter Soldier.

Too bad the man was too busy picking her up and throwing her to be able to properly counter the full force of a pissed off super soldier and his fancy shield.

Natasha hit the car, nearly a dozen yards behind her, before she could truly take in the majesty of Steve taking down the Winter Soldier.

"Oh boy," Toni breathed in her ear at the same time as Clint said, "Ouch, that's gotta hurt."

Natasha felt a shark-like grin pull at her features as she slowly pulled herself off the ground, shaking herself of glass and dirt.

A hand appeared in front of her, and Natasha wasn't so proud that she didn't grip it to pull her the rest of the way up.

A shock pulsed through her, and she met Sam's eyes. His lips parted. "Did—"

"No time," Natasha exhaled, dropping his hand once she was fully upright.

He nodded at her, and they both faced the fight that was raging between Captain America and the Winter Soldier.

It was a sight to see. A _beautiful_ sight.

Because, for all that they were in danger every moment this continued, Natasha had a love for dance. And this was dance. The way they moved, dodging and parrying and slicing and blocking, deflecting with the shield and the metal arm, feet moving swiftly and easily and like a well-oiled machine or a professional dance troupe… gorgeous. It was the first time she'd _ever_ seen someone who could meet Steve blow for blow—a human, at least. It was…

"Wow," Sam said.

Natasha murmured her agreement.

"Iron Man and I got the other bad guys rounded up," Clint announced.

"War Machine coming in," Rhodey said evenly.

"What took you so long, darlin'?" Toni teased. "The show's almost over."

"I grabbed the weapons from the wrecked cars and stashed them in the quinjet."

Natasha smiled at the sass in the man's voice, and then winced as Steve was knocked back with a one-two punch to the face, metal and skin both making loud sounds as they impacted.

He didn't get up immediately.

But the Winter Soldier was frozen in place, too—not even breathing, it seemed.

"Shut up you three," Nat ordered curtly, feeling breathless herself, tension rising in the air.

What was going on?

Sam shifted uneasily at her side, and she placed a hand on his arm before he could raise his rifle and take aim.

"Wait," she whispered.

Could… could Steve feel the same thing she felt with the Winter Soldier? The same thing she felt with Steve, but did her best to ignore because Steve was too good for her? The same thing with Sam, even?

It…

"Bucky?" came Steve's voice, cracking at the end with hope and desperation and deep, resounding, ancient pain and loss.

The Winter Soldier hunched forward as if he'd been punched in the gut, both hands hitting his thighs as he dropped his knife, and started to breathe in giant gasps of air, shoulders shaking and knees visibly weak. The monster reached up and tore off his half-mask, becoming a man… just a man.

He lifted his head, and Natasha could see tears rolling down the man's cheeks.

_Bucky_? she wondered to herself. This… it couldn't be _Steve's_ Bucky. Could it? She'd heard so many stories of the man that he seemed the most human, most real man she'd ever _not_ known in person, and she was having problems reconciling that with the soldier she'd known as Big Brother. Though there _had_ been moments of kindness and softness throughout their lessons, it had always been with an air of detachment. An _absence_.

That absence was all but gone now, looking at this… wreck before them, collapsing to his knees in the midst of the destruction and chaos he and Hydra had caused.

"Shit, shit, _shit_, there's no time for this! Just got notice that there's a goddamn _missile_ coming in hot!" Toni yelled into their comms. Nat and Sam started backing away, towards the quinjet.

"Get ready for hug and fly, Captain," Rhodey's voice cut in, just a little calmer—well, not that that was hard, compared with his girlfriend. "I've got Cap and the Soldier, Iron Man."

"Natasha, I've got you and your new boy. Be there in… ten, nine—"

"Confirmed," Steve said, though Natasha noticed with concern that his voice was still distant, a little lost, just like how his eyes appeared in their lock on his… on _Bucky_.

Steve looked like he was looking at a ghost.

"Hold onto my waist and neck, and get ready to wrap a leg around mine," Natasha ordered Sam, tearing her eyes and his away from the sight in front of them.

Luckily the man didn't protest, knowing she wouldn't have issued the commands without good reason. He made sure the wings were tucked back into the pack on his back, from where they'd started to extend out.

"Missile coming in," Nat answered the unspoken question, remembering that he couldn't hear what was being said over comms.

His eyes widened just as Nat spread her arms out and Toni grabbed hold of her underneath her armpits. Sam wrapped himself even tighter around Natasha as they were lifted in the air, and then—

Clint and Toni let out a whoop of excitement as the familiar colors of the Bifrost enveloped them, and then they were weightless.

"That's some deus ex shit, Heimdall!" Rhodey laughed.

Natasha had been up to Asgard via the Bifrost enough times that it no longer disoriented her, and so she shrugged herself out of Toni's loosening grip. She took pity on Sam's shock and kept a hold of him, wrapping her arms around his torso and spinning them slowly around as the colors and light whipped by, counting the people around her to make sure she wasn't missing anyone.

Herself, Sam, Toni… there was Clint, looking up with glee at their destination… Rhodey, still laughing, and—there. Steve was wrapped around the obviously unconscious form of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky.

Natasha took a moment to pray to… something, whatever it was that was out there… thankful for the fact that all of her people had made it out alive—albeit not unscathed, in body _and_ soul—but hoping against hope that the city blocks they'd left behind had been evacuated before the missile hit.

It was a futile hope, she knew.

Hydra would _pay._

For what they'd done to the citizens, for what they'd done to S.H.I.E.L.D., for what they'd done to Fury, for what they were trying to do to the world with the Insight helicarriers—though at least they'd bought some time on that front—but most especially, they would pay for what they'd done to the poor soul she'd known a lifetime ago, and who had been Steve's entire _world_, once upon a time, longer ago than she'd even been alive.

They had taken so much.

It was time they took it back.

Before they lost it all again.

* * *

Oh, how this day had been a long time in coming, even if God had not known it would ever occur this way—not even in _his_, the _Creator's_, wildest imagination.

As his four saints and their three friends were swept away to Asgard, God laughed.

As they reunited with a fourth and fifth friend with joy—albeit muted with concern—God felt joy with them.

As they were taken to Odin and Frigga's palace, their son Thor unknowingly bringing four of God's own into his family halls, God _smirked_.

For the first time in a long time, God watched without fear.

For the first time in a long time, God smiled without reservation.

For the first time in a long time, God watched with _hope_.

And, yes… with much amusement.

* * *

He rose slowly from unconsciousness, through the hazy, deep level of important dreams and then again through the lighter, higher level of less consequential dreams he couldn't quite grasp hold of. Finally, nothing was left except a feeling of calm blankness and warmth.

He was warm.

_Warm_ for the first time in… in…

Bucky's brain shied away from the thought with a jerk that traversed through his body. He focused instead on the sensations surrounding him, grounding himself as he'd done time and time again, without thinking on _why_ he'd had to do so.

The bed he was in was large and comfortable—the most comfortable he'd ever been in, to tell the truth. Though that really wasn't saying something, he thought with wry amusement, his lips curling up in a smile.

The room _felt_ large, without opening his eyes to check, and there was a breeze passing over his face in the most perfect way imaginable.

It was… heaven, truly, and he just wanted to sleep for another hour, two, three… forever, perhaps.

That way he would never have to confront the thoughts, biding their time just out of his mind's reach.

"Hey there, sleepyhead."

Bucky refused to let himself stiffen, keeping himself loose and lax and _ready_, as if he'd not been completely taken by surprise.

He opened his eyes slowly, turning first his head and then his entire body to the side where the woman's voice had come from.

The woman waited patiently, hands in her lap and one leg crossed over the other, one hand in her lap and the other stretched rather indolently across the back of her comfortable-looking chair. Her bright red hair was tucked behind delicate ears, sharp green eyes peering out at her from behind pale, beautiful features.

Features he recognized.

"Natalia?" he asked softly, not quite able to believe it was really her, the young woman he'd last seen face to face as a teenager. But it could be no one else. He'd never forget the way those same green eyes had gleamed in determination when their skin had sparked so long ago—what looked like two decades by her appearance, and yet felt like… like…

"How long?"

Her gaze refused to pity him, and yet there was still an edge of softness to them he'd never expected to see.

"Two days, Yasha," she replied easily. "Almost three."

"No, I—" He flinched. "Don't call me – I – how _long_?"

He couldn't _remember_. Not quite. It was just out of reach. He couldn't… he…

"Fourteen years. It's been fourteen years, James."

"Bucky," he replied automatically.

"Bucky then."

Silence settled over them for long minutes, as Bucky tried to make sense of it all, of all that her answers meant for him, of all his memories of her, of everything—

Bucky lurched up, and he was only barely aware of the fact that she shifted in her own seat.

"I can remember. Why can I remember _everything_?" he asked, his voice quaking as the depths of his mind yawned beneath the toes of his feet. Memories, _every one of them_, threatened to pull him under.

Because he could. He could remember everything.

Every_one_.

"Where are we?" he asked, panic only barely suppressed.

Natalia—no, she was known as Natasha now, memories of Hydra mission files told him—moved, making it obvious that she was doing so, and sat on the edge of his bed by his knees. There was still no pity in her eyes as he met them long breaths later, trying to control their cadence.

"We're in Asgard, Thor's home world. Did they brief you on that?" At his nod, she continued. "The healers here healed you soon after you arrived. They weren't sure if they could… fix you, not completely, and they're still not sure how much of your cognitive abilities and memories you'll retain. They'll want to look at you, but only when you're ready. There will be problems, absolutely, because… well, Bucky. You've been through a lot, and a lot of this is up to you. It's a process, not something that can be fixed with the snap of fingers, no matter how much of a miracle they've already performed."

She went quiet, though not awkwardly so, letting Bucky absorb what she'd said.

Finally, he asked a question which had been pressing more and more urgently against his mind. "Steve?" His name foreign and hesitant upon Bucky's lips.

The thought of _his Steve_ both frightened and elated him.

"Wore himself out keeping vigil over you." She nodded her head in the direction of the right wall. "He's just a room over. I can get him?" But she didn't make a move to get up, letting him take his time in answering.

Letting him _decide_.

Him. _Deciding for himself_.

"No, not yet," he finally choked out. "Let him rest." He didn't mention that he couldn't quite bring himself to face his… his… he didn't know what Steve was to him anymore, after all these years, and that _scared him_. He didn't mention it, but he knew that Natasha knew. She had always been the smartest of the Widows.

"I had to quite literally sit on him to get him to rest," she said lightly, clearly amused but also deliberately changing the tone of the conversation. Just for him. Bucky felt his heart swell, and suddenly he both wanted to cry, and wanted to _sleep_. For five years. For forever.

Natasha smoothed her fingers over the blankets by Bucky's hip, and continued with a little smile playing at her lips, "Sam's currently on idiot watch. Last I saw, he'd broken out handcuffs from God knows where, threatening the man with them despite knowing it would do absolutely nothing to keep him in place. It took Thor's mother spelling the door to keep him in and give you some space."

"Sounds like my Stevie," Bucky mumbled with a lazy smile, again edging towards sleep. There was a moment's silence as he imagined Steve by his side, sitting like Natasha was just then, just like Steve had done so many times when they were young men, when he'd been feeling especially well. At that, he startled awake, only just being stopped from leaping out of bed with a touch of fingers to his bare chest which sent that same electric current singing through his bloodstream.

"I can remember," he said into the stillness, feeling a little awkward as he threw himself back into his bed, but trying to make the awkwardness dissolve into casualness.

"Apparently," she said dryly.

"No, you don't understand." He turned his eyes on her and smiled, for the first time letting it reach his eyes and spread from ear to ear. "I can remember my past. I can remember Steve, _you_, everything… everything _good_ that they kept me from remembering, everything good they took and _warped_. I can remember, and I… Natalia, I'm _free_."

He smiled… even while inside he wanted to _cry_ for everything he'd lost. For everything, everyone he'd _taken_.

And then he really did cry, letting great but silent sobs wrack his body, not wanting to call attention to himself just yet.

Except for Natalia, but only because she _knew_ what the Red Room was like, what Department X was like, what _Hydra_, even, was like.

She knew, and so he let her gather him into her arms, holding him… just holding him and letting him _feel_ for the first time in what felt like forever.

He cried all the harder.

* * *

Sam watched with amusement as Natasha and Rhodes—_call me Jim_, he'd said—argued with Steve and Toni—_call me Toni or I'll hurt you_, she'd said. The looks that Steve and Toni were giving each other showed that they were surprised to be getting along this easily, but they were in full agreement on this one, big thing, at least.

The both of them wanted to get up and go, and wreck Hydra's shit.

Natasha and Jim, on the other hand, were calling for caution.

Sam was kind of sort of in the middle of both their arguments, for all that they were sitting down, mixed, and not actually standing two to a side, but he was rather willing to keep quiet for the time being considering a) he liked to sit back and listen and _then_ argue after he had more facts, and b) this was quite literally at least the sixth time they'd had this argument, in one form or another.

It seemed the Avengers never tired of arguments, but the fact of the matter was that they'd actually covered quite a bit of ground in their convoluted way of planning battles. When they actually _did_ put boots on the ground, so to speak, their track record of beating the bad guys with minimal damage spoke for itself. Well, with three large exceptions, but Sam was hard pressed to think that _anyone_ else could've done better, given the circumstances.

_He_ certainly couldn't have.

And yet, here he was, haven practically been adopted into this rather ridiculous, loud, abrasive, and _utterly endearing_ family of superheroes.

His ma would be proud.

He wasn't exactly sure what things would be like after all this died down—he didn't know if he'd be asked to stay or this was just a one-time thing that he just happened to get swept up into, or even an occasional thing. But, well, Sam already felt welcome, and the team had all but made him one of them, coming _just_ short of calling him an Avenger.

_Wow_.

He kept that to himself, however; it wouldn't do to let these people's heads get any bigger than they already were.

"I have to do something!" Steve snarled. "They hurt Bucky! It has to be me! If not me, who else?"

Case. In. Point.

Sam already loved Steve, but _man_, sometimes the guy was too stubborn for his own good.

He raised an eyebrow at Natasha and they both turned as one to give the man a withering stare, letting their expressions speak for themselves.

Jim and Toni laughed at Steve, though, making him flush with embarrassment and a bit of anger, before the couple started snarking at each other, solidarity brushed aside in the spirit of—what Sam now realized—entertainment.

Everyone was just a little bored, and having the _Hydra Problem_ lingering in their minds at all time really did not help.

Sam couldn't fault Thor for his hospitality, though, especially given the unexpected nature of their visit. They had books and table games, card games, the run of the training yard and a good portion of the guest wing of the palace—a _palace_!—and some truly amazing food and beds and clothes and bathing facilities.

But when their world, their families and homes and friends and, really, their entire existence was at risk, there was only so much diversion one could handle.

Thor had Heimdall keep an eye out on Earth—Midgard—and D.C. especially, and it both reassured and worried them, to know the specifics of what was going on in their wake. The one thing they had going for them was that time was moving slower on Earth than it was on Asgard—frickin' _weird_—and, well, the fact that the Insight engines had been rendered inoperable by whatever it was that Toni and Jim had done to them.

But the fact of the matter was that Hydra was still in operation, and they were consolidating their power by whatever other means they had at their disposal—and they had an entire secret government spy agency at their disposal.

So, yeah, it was pretty bad.

But there wasn't much they could do until they had a concrete plan, and Steve's legendary planning capabilities were remarkably short-circuited while Bucky was still recuperating.

Once the healers had seen to him, they said there was nothing more to be done except to wait, and to let him rest.

Steve had sat by his bedside for six hours straight by the time Natasha and Sam had come down hard on him, guilting him into getting some rest, himself, so that he could be at his best for Bucky and to deal with Hydra both, when the time came. They'd set up a schedule to check on him every couple of hours, and whenever it wasn't Steve's turn coming up next, the lot of them had done their best to distract Steve from climbing up the walls.

So, they planned. They argued. They slept. They read. They played games while they talked and argued. They trained while they talked and argued.

And after three and a half days, Sam could say that he knew these people pretty damn well for new friends.

And maybe… more? Despite Steve and Bucky being a century-spanning love story, there was… something. Something there. Something that maybe, just maybe, could _work_.

There was _something_ about the way that Steve and Natasha both looked at him, something about the way he felt like he knew them deep down within, more than any other person who'd entered his life besides his own blood.

Something about the way it felt like sparks flew when their hands touched, for all that Sam _swore_ he'd never been one to use metaphors where feelings like this were concerned.

Something about the way they smiled at him, seemed to _care_ about him, and the simple peace bordering on joy he felt even silent in their presence.

Something he felt, even, with Bucky—who he knew only in person as a rampaging assassin and, well, a sleeping lump in his bed… but who came alive in the stories that Steve would tell to him. Natasha had heard them before, she said, but it seemed as if she was listening all the more now.

And she had her own stories to tell, apparently.

Steve had been shocked—and pained—to learn about his partner's role in Natasha's formative life and training.

Even Sam had a hard time wrapping his mind around it, and he didn't really know the guy. Not _truly_.

"What's with all the racket?" a voice came grumbling from the direction of the bedrooms.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Steve went absolutely _rigid_ at Sam's side, and Sam would laugh at the wide eyes sprouting on the guy's face if he didn't feel a little breathless himself.

Everyone went quiet.

Bucky shoved his long hair back with his metal hand—looking goddamn _fine_—and then bared his teeth at the room only semi-seriously. There was a glint in the guy's eye that spoke to great depths of mischief, and Sam was _intrigued_.

"You're both wrong, you're both right. There, that's sorted. Now can we get to the hugging? Last I remember, I was trying to kill you, and I think that calls for a damn _hug_," he said succinctly, and then pretty much _launched_ himself onto Steve.

Unfortunately, Sam and Nat were caught in the crossfire of the tackle.

At least Sam didn't have to stop himself from stabbing the guy, unlike the fiery and deadly redhead on Steve's other side, but Sam was pretty sure Bucky could hold his own if he got a knife in the face.

Thankfully, they didn't have to test that theory.

_Not_ thankfully, they were subject to watching, from close up, as Bucky pulled back, looked Steve in the eyes with a long, searching gaze, communicating at a soul-deep level… before he framed Steve's face with his hands and dove in for a kiss that stole Steve's breath.

It stole Sam's as well, because _damn_.

It was uncomfortable to watch, but for more than just one reason, if Sam were honest with himself.

At the same time, however, he was happy for the two of them. Because… yeah. Just, wow. It wasn't everyday that you lost your lover to death, only to find out it wasn't all that permanent after waking up from an impermanent death yourself, seventy years in the future.

It was beautiful.

It was art.

It was getting _awfully_ sappy.

And it was about to get a whole lot more X-rated, Sam would bet on that.

Sam was just about to follow Toni and Jim's strategic retreat—_'yuck! They're worse than us!'—_when Bucky latched a hand onto his wrist.

Thankfully, he wasn't still kissing Steve when he did it. Because that would just be _weirder than Sam could handle_. And he could handle a fair bit of weird.

But even so, it was _hot_, and Sam was only a man. One bi man, being tested to the limits.

'Weird' wasn't the right word, but it would do. For now.

Sam raised an eyebrow at Bucky, studiously ignoring Steve's panting, but grinning face, just to his right. "You're lucky you didn't die," he said calmly, nodding at Nat on Bucky's other side, where she had the man's metal hand in a combat hold.

"Nah," Bucky said with a grin and a decidedly Brooklyn drawl that went straight to Sam's gut—_oh god_. "Natalia wouldn't kill me, now would you?"

"In your dreams," she growled.

"Hm yes, those too," Bucky said with a wink and a shit-eating grin.

Holy _shit_.

"Wow, you really do want to die, Buck," Steve sad with a choked laugh. A pained grimace crossed his features. "But please don't. I only just got you back, and funny as it is to joke about it, just… please."

Bucky's features softened immediately, losing the humor and gaining a weighty compassion, filled with years of history—and years of pain.

Both of their pain.

Sam and Nat were just about to leave them to their reunion, again, when Bucky shook his head. "Stay," he said, glancing at Sam and Nat to either side of where he straddled Steve's lap. "Stevie and I will talk later, but first I need to apologize. And to… understand." He grimaced, and then turned himself around so that he could sit sideways on Steve's lap, tucking his head underneath the blond's chin, back snug against Nat's side with a blasé familiarity. "Tell me what I missed, tell me what happened. Tell me what we can do to fix this. And," he touched his bare fingers to the back of Sam's hand, "most importantly, tell me why I feel this same thing with you, with Natal—Natasha—as I have with Stevie all my life. Tell me why I know he feels it, too."

Sam was stunned that the man had brought the topic out into the open like that. Just like that, as if it hadn't been something that Sam had been trying to hide, that Nat and Steve had refused to talk about. He just strolled into their lives and turned the tables on everything.

It was like walking into a whirlwind, but Sam was charmed despite his brief alarm.

He smiled at the three of them before him, making quite the picture of contentment and warmth and… something more.

"I don't know," he said. "But let's figure it out."

* * *

They did talk.

They talked a lot, though they couldn't quite figure out everything. And as much as Bucky was a direct person, they were all holding one thing or another back. But that was okay. They had time, Sam figured. They had plenty of that.

If they could survive what was coming with Hydra.

Which they had _also_ spoken about, getting Bucky's rather excellent insight—as much as he remembered, in any case, from what they allowed him to know during his rare awake periods. But he was smart, and even then he'd been able to piece together a lot of what he wanted to know.

What they _needed_ to know.

Sam could tell, though, that Steve was starting to get antsy, obviously wanting to get his—partner, boyfriend, lover, nigh _soulmate_—alone. For many reasons. They'd remained connected, skin to skin, wrapped around each other in one form or another, from the moment Bucky had entered the room and flung himself at Steve, but there was still so much left unsaid, left undone, between the two of them.

It was probably close to two hours later, and Sam was about to force the two idiots into a locked room, but the thought was interrupted by the doors opening smoothly and quietly.

Thor—and Sam was still pretty amazed that he now knew _Thor_, as much as he played it cool on the outside—walked in with a dark-haired woman at his side. The two of them were exchanging what looked to be a long-going and thus long-practiced argument, but there was nothing but friendliness to be found between the two of them.

All of that drained away into what looked like surprise and a sort of not-quite-combat readiness as they came to a sudden standstill.

They were looking at Sam.

To be precise, they were looking at Sam _and_ Natasha, Steve, and Bucky.

Looking at them as if they were something not quite… real.

_Right back atcha, buddy_, Sam thought with some amusement.

"Thor?" Natasha said, just a little drowsily, from Steve's other side.

The large man snapped out of it, turning to Sif with alacrity. "Fetch my mother," he commanded as if born to it.

Dude definitely was, that was for sure, for the woman who'd just been pleasantly ribbing the god of thunder was out the door in a flash, no questions asked.

That had Steve sitting up straight, and Bucky peering suspiciously at the other man from behind his curtain of hair from his spot wedged between Steve and Sam.

Sam looked back at Thor in time to catch him opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it, frowning, and then making a clicking sound with his tongue. Finally, he seemed to settle on the words he wanted. "I do not know how I did not see this before, but it must have something to do with all four of you together, awake and whole and healthy of mind and body."

He held up a hand, that and his expression doing as much to forestall Steve's barely begun question as his words did. "Peace, Steven. If I told you the end of it, you would have no understanding of the whole of it. For that I must start at the beginning." He paused. "The _very_ beginning."

* * *

The four of them had parted ways in a sort of daze after Thor had explained, well, _everything_, to them. Well, they'd parted in three different directions, Steve not quite able to let go of Bucky now that he was awake and in his arms, but they all needed their space after what they'd heard.

He couldn't quite believe it, himself, and the four of them had decided without saying a word that they needed some time, each to process in their own way.

Thor had been understanding, and also focused on his own goals, muttering something about finding his mother—she still had yet to arrive—and then going to give his father a huge piece of his mind.

Odin.

God.

Odin versus God.

He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the absolute _scale_ of his life, even if he was but a pawn in the cosmic scheme of things.

Their lives had been messed with because of a petty feud between two gods—and one _he'd believed in for his entire life_—but Steve couldn't find it within him to complain, even if not all of the ends justified the means.

Because he understood why Odin would wish vengeance for the death of a loved one. He understood why God would reincarnate the soul—_where _even_ did that fit in with his religion?—_of his own loved ones, even if he hadn't quite wrapped his mind around the fact that one of said souls was _his_. Was Bucky's. Was Nat's and Sam's.

When it came right down to it… Steve was grateful for it.

He didn't believe in predestination—free will was part and parcel of _who he was_—and so he didn't believe that he and Bucky wouldn't have come together without the confluence of events before they were born… but he thought that, perhaps, having been marked the way they were was a good thing.

For it had given him a connection right into the depths of Bucky's soul, and he into his.

And that… that was something which Steve would be forever thankful for.

He didn't know how Sam or Nat felt—there would be time to delve into that later, alongside all the _other_ questions which had been raised between them—but as Bucky smiled at him in that half-shy, half-confident way only he was able to manage… all other thoughts fell by the wayside.

"Come here, you," Bucky murmured, gripping Steve by the nape of his neck and drawing their lips together. "I missed you. I love you. I don't care what Thor said, you're my Stevie, and that's all there is to it, in my opinion."

Steve smiled against the man's lips and then deepened the kiss without a word, humming his happiness against his soft mouth.

God, he was so lucky.

Bucky loved him.

He loved Bucky.

That was that.

Everything else could wait.

* * *

Closure would have to wait.

Although Thor had given both Frigga and Odin a _huge_ piece of his mind, sparks skittering across the marble all around him in a display of temper which he had not exhibited in centuries, and Frigga had scolded Odin long after their son had left their presence, the King of Asgard had refused to see his handiwork for himself, locking himself in the throne room to brood instead.

Where once he had been a ruler who preferred a hands-on approach, not quite accountable for his actions but nonetheless acknowledging that they _existed_, Odin seemed to be at a time and place in his long-lived life where he was struggling with his past actions.

He still wasn't quite able to reconcile them, however.

But his time would come. Perhaps on the Avengers' next visit to Asgard, for God knew with certainty that it would not be their last.

For now, they would part the realm, knowing that Odin could wait, but Hydra could—_would_—not. But they left with knowledge that they did not have before, and a soul newly healed and returned to them, ready to enter the world not as either of the men he'd been before… but someone new.

It changed everything, and it changed nothing.

When James stood at the end of the Bifrost, Steven at his back and Samuel and Natalia at his sides, God felt that they—all of them, including he—were on the cusp of something new, something _greater_ than the sum of all their parts.

When James used that beautiful strength and speed to lean first to one side, and then the other, stealing a kiss from both Samuel and Natalia's lips with a gasp, and pulling back with a roguish grin, God _knew_ that everything would be alright.

"What, Stevie? Don't think I didn't know you wanted to do just that!" he said with a laugh. "You even told me just last night you'd been making eyes at the two of them!"

Steven's shocked face flushed even further but he refused to back down.

Just as he'd always done. Just like he'd always been.

Yes, God thought. Everything _would_ be alright.

When Samuel turned on Steven with a smirk of his own playing on his lips, and swung an arm around Steven's shoulders—nigh as red as his face—God thought that the future looked more vibrant even than the man's skin.

When Natalia recovered from her brief shock, she smacked James on the chest with a mock glare and then proceeded to hook a leg behind the man's knee, tumbling him to the ground at her feet, laughing the whole way—the both of them.

It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. The most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

Yes, God thought. Much would be the same, but the circumstances made it all new and bright again. Every second of the future something _different_.

This… this changed everything.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I would be so happy if you could let me know what you think! ^_^ I hope you enjoyed, and if not, such is life. It happens!

Take care everyone. xoxo


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